Coriann: Aground

By Stan Parsons

For generations, the Worthings have been a successful, esteemed, and respected waterman family in the Chesapeake Bay Pound Net and, more recently, the Charter business.
Hardships are a part of life on the water. When the son, who was being groomed to head the business, fell into drugs three years ago, it had a severe impact on the business.
But the family pulled together and dealt with it.
The sudden murder of the patriarch staggers the Worthings and threatens to end their way of life.
But the widow is a warrior. With the help of her nephew, who they took into their home ten years ago when he was orphaned, she struggles to revive the debilitated business and clan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780359005000

Book preview

CoriAnn Aground

by Stan Parsons

This is a work of fiction. The names, places, events, dialogue and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The characters are fictional and are not based on any persons, living or dead. Any resemblances to actual persons, businesses or actual events and any similarity in characters’ names are coincidental.

The author is grateful to many friends and resources for providing information about boats and methods used in the fishing industry in this area. The Reedville Fishermen’s Museum makes its huge reservoir of data available to all. Fred Jett patiently endured my questions about his boat. Leslie Martin gave valuable insight to the story line and structure. Thanks to all of you.

Copyright 2017 by Stanley W. Parsons. U.S. Copyright Registration Number TXu 2-057-995. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN 978-0-359-00500-0 www.stanparsonsbooks.com

Stan Parsons is a native and resident of Virginia and lives near the village of Ophelia. This is his third novel.

What Happened, Randi?

The Children’s Rights War

CoriAnn Aground

Chapter 1

Tuesday May 16

This dude must weigh a ton. It didn’t help that his clothes were soaked, his white waterman boots were full of briny water, and this part of shore was too shallow to offer much buoyancy. But, it also had trees right to the water, putting it out of the moonlight. And the bank wasn’t steep.

Out of breath, the wiry man inhaled the best he could, braced his left foot against a rock that poked out of the ripples, put his arms under the guy’s shoulders and jerked backwards.

The body came with him for a second until the stone supporting his foot gave way. He hit the ground quietly but hard. The corpse splashed raucously and landed on his leg.

He lay on his back, gasping for breath, gaping at the sky, thankful that the seemingly eternal Bay breeze was rustling the dry leaves to muffle the noise, until - - a groan?

He raised his head, stared at the body, and heard another groan, saw a dead man - - a dead man - - struggle to lift his head, and heard him moan again, louder.

Then another noise that wasn’t supposed to happen now, a boat motor coming toward the Bay end of the inlet, and saw two lights that also seemed premature and wrong: the lights of the boat and the first presage of dawn.

Exhaustion be damned, he yanked his leg from under the body, sprang to his feet, splashed into the water to seize the rock that had betrayed him moments earlier, hoisted it high over his head, and hurled it into the man’s skull.

He stooped, tossed the stone off the body, and stared at the crushed face. Blood spurted out of it and poured over it.

He grimaced and muttered ‘moan now, asshole.’

He rose, noticed his Orioles cap had come off when he fell. He grabbed it and did a quick scan, saw no other loose clues lying about, and then scampered into the woods.

Is that Cal’s boat? asked the young mate Mike.

Looks like it, Butch muttered. He pulled back on the throttle, eased the helm to port, and yelled Cal? You aground?

Daylight was gulping shadows and swamping moonlight fast. It was clearly CoriAnn, Cal’s thirty-eight foot charter boat. It was listing, its motor silent.

Cal, where are you? Butch shouted, his jowls quivering.

With a glance toward his son Mike, he added, Cal knows these waters. What’s he doing that close to the bank?

Butch’s boat drew three feet, too much to pull alongside.

I’ll get as close as I can so we can check it out.

Judy was whipping up a bowl of eggs when her lean 6’2" teenage nephew strode into the kitchen.

Morning, Aunt Judy.

Their back window oversaw their dock, which usually had a boat and two men unloading crabs before dawn. By now the guys should be heading inside, tired and hungry.

Where’re Uncle Cal and Junior?

They haven’t come in yet, Skip. She glanced at the clock: 6:10 AM. You want to give them a shout, find out if I should start cooking breakfast?

Sure. Skip walked to the phone and dialed Cal’s mobile as he scanned the aptly named Broad Creek, which was wider than a lot of rivers.

After a moment Judy heard him say ‘hey, just checking in. I’ll try the radio.’ He looked at his aunt, who had set breakfast aside and was already reaching for the radio.

Cal, Judy. You OK?

She turned to Skip and raised her eyebrows. Skip stepped to the window and viewed the water with controlled anxiety. Seconds stretched to a half minute before the radio crackled.

"Judy, Butch. We’re at CoriAnn. Cal’s not here - - went aground - - probably walking home. Don’t worry, we’ll…"

"Oh, my God, Dad, look," they heard Mike scream.

Get back to you in a minute, Judy.

Where are you? she screeched.

Eagle Eye. Give me a minute.

Skip tore out the back door and scampered down the lawn toward their runabout.

Judy frantically ran after him.

Sheriff Robert Chub Wayne was in Ruth’s café munching his second sausage biscuit when his phone rang. It was his dispatcher.

Hey, gal, what’s up?

"Nothing, I hope, but I just heard Butch and Judy on the frequency. They found Cal’s boat CoriAnn aground, no Cal, then Mike screamed, and it went dead."

They say where?

Eagle Eye.

Ed’s down that way. Give him Butch’s cell number so he can check in with them. Let me know, OK?

You got it. She hung up and called Deputy Ed Cedar.

Keeping his binoculars focused on the body, Butch brought his phone to his ear. His voice was somber, nervous.

This is Butch.

Hey, Ed here. We picked up chatter that Cal’s got trouble. That right?

"…yeah…I think I’m looking at him…too shallow to get closer. CoriAnn’s aground behind me and I’m seeing someone Cal’s size in the water. He’s on his back, near shore, and his face is smashed in. Hold on, Ed, I hear a motor."

Butch turned his binoculars to his right.

Looks like Judy and Skip coming in their skiff.

I’m on my way. Ed started his SUV while hanging up, aimed at Eagle Eye Road and, lights flashing, he floored it. A half mile later, he focused hard on a sharp curve that hooked left and missed a set of worried eyes peering out of the brush.

‘Damn,’ the shifty man thought. ‘I just left, barely ahead of some boat. Minutes later, the law? Come on! How can anything happen that fast in this boondock?’

Skip swerved the Larson runabout toward Butch and dropped the engine to a mild rumble as they neared. His eyes darted to CoriAnn then to Butch.

Judy, kneeling and bent over the bow, dirty blond hair as tangled by the wind as a three-inch bob can be, cupped her hands and yelled where?

Butch looked away.

Talk to me, Butch!

It’s not good, Judy, the squat waterman yelled, his gaze drawn to the body.

Butch heard, and then saw, Ed’s Sheriff Department SUV slam through low brush and screech to a halt near the creek bank. Ed jumped out and, gawking at Butch, shot his hands into the air searchingly. Butch pointed to a section of the woods about fifty feet to Ed’s left.

The slender six-foot deputy splashed into the shallows and scuttled toward where Butch had pointed. Skip kicked the Larson into a fervent beeline for the same spot.

Butch drew a deep breath as he watched the little motor boat race to the shore. He saw Judy shade her eyes, searching, as they drew nearer. His head dropped, his eyes shut, when he heard Judy begin to wail in tortured agony.

Ed spied Sheriff Chub Wayne weaving through the trees and scurried to meet him. He was hushed but urgent.

Chub, the crime scene’s messed up. I saw Skip and Judy would beat me there and ran the best I could but Judy jumped in the water and was all over Cal till Skip dragged her off. Then her boat washed over and started bumping against Cal till Skip ran back and pulled it away. I’m really sorry.

His boss nodded. They began to trudge the last ten feet.

Also, any footprints in the mud near the body might have been covered over by Judy.

The Sheriff puffed out a breath in frustration.

And Skip too, I suppose, since he also beat you here.

Actually it was Skip who cautioned us all about it.

Is that right, Chub muttered warily. Let’s get it taped off before anyone else muddies it up. Is the ME on the way?

She’s been called; gave me a routine about the emergency she’s on, so I said either get here or get someone who can, pronto.

Follow up when you get a chance and if no one’s on their way we’ll get the State Police. We might need them anyway.

When they got to the water line Skip was crouched in the shoals by Cal’s body, studious and stoic, sunglasses pushed back into his wavy light brown hair. Butch and Mike had waded ashore and stood at water’s edge five feet from Cal, holding up Judy, who was flaccid and bawling.

Her Larson had drifted unnoticed some fifteen feet. The victim was still on his back, bobbing slightly in the tiny waves of this wide creek less than a mile from the Bay.

Chub stepped into the water, drawing attention from Butch and his son. He nodded at Mike then at Judy’s boat.

Can you get that?

Mike assented and started wading. Skip looked up then rose and slogged after Mike to help.

Ed joined Chub, who had moved next to Cal and squatted to study the victim. Blood was still trickling about his face. His nose was smashed and the rest of his face shattered. Chub felt for a pulse - - nothing.

His assistant shoved his deputy’s cap deeper into his straight black hair and sadly mumbled, There was no sign of life when I got here, either.

Judy broke free of Butch, paced timidly to Cal, stared.

Then she collapsed.

Ten minutes later they had Judy revived and in Ed’s SUV, and Judy’s brother, Josh, on his way to meet them at the main road and take her. Ed drove her off to meet Josh.

Butch and Mike hovered over Cal’s body. Skip stood in knee-deep water, holding the line of the Larson, his hazel eyes locked on his uncle’s boat, CoriAnn. Chub left where Ed’s SUV had been and trudged through the woods to the water. He waded in and approached the two watermen.

The detective is maybe twenty minutes away, the Sheriff announced. "And another deputy is coming. Can you two give me a few more minutes watching Cal till Ed, or the other deputy, or someone gets here to relieve you? I need to go look at CoriAnn."

Sure, Butch and Mike agreed.

Skip overheard them, eased into the runabout, started it, and smoothly skimmed toward Chub, who continued talking to the father and son who’d found the body.

Ed told you not to get footprints in the mud?

They looked sheepish.

Yeah, but when Judy collapsed and we carried her out, we messed up.

A grimace flashed over Chub’s face. He caught himself right away and deliberately mellowed, nodded.

That’s OK. We should have taped it off. Now Ed’s gone and he has the tape. Watch it for me, would you, keep others off?

They nodded as Skip drifted up in the Larson, holding an arm out to Chub. The Sheriff reflected a moment then climbed in, and Skip brought her about and headed across Broad Creek.

Stay in this boat while I check the other one, Skip.

Eyes fixed on his target, Skip spoke evenly, resolutely.

I know where everything is. I’ll spot anything out of place. If my cousin’s there I’ll be ready.

Chub hadn’t mentioned Junior, but suspected they may find an even more grotesque carcass on the boat.

I can’t take you on board, Skip.

She’s aground, lopsided; too treacherous for one man.

That drew a dubious glimpse from the Sheriff but no words. Skip kept on course, expertly pulled alongside and tied to his uncle’s boat.

He helped the short, fittingly nicknamed Chub scale the gunwale then effortlessly hopped on board and froze.

Do you have a second pair of crime scene gloves?

Tapping his palm against his forehead, Chub moaned.

Sure, with the first pair, in the car. He shrugged.

Skip took out his handkerchief, opened a hatch, and removed a couple sets of work gloves.

Will these do in a pinch?

Reaching out to take one pair Chub muttered, I need to re-read our crime scene investigation manual.

Or watch CSI, the student quipped as he put on his gloves. Then, scanning the deck from bow to stern, he muttered ‘OK,’ and then pointed to the cockpit.

Chub raised a hand.

This is a crime scene, Skip. Nothing can be touched, moved or impaired. So I have to insist that you wait here.

I watch CSI, too, the lithe, muscular lad whispered. Someone could still be here.

Chastened, Chub pulled his pistol, put a restraining hand on Skip’s arm, and preceded him toward the cabin. They didn’t make it. Skip tugged on Chub’s sleeve at the console and whispered. 

There was a struggle here. Cal kept it shipshape.

The area was slightly awry, a couple of items lying loose on the deck near the helm. Skip pointed to a compartment and, in a hushed voice, uttered a suggestion.

Cal keeps a pistol in that drawer.

Chub gently opened the drawer. It was empty. He glanced at Skip, who raised an eyebrow and then pointed to the door a few steps down from the cockpit. It was closed. They traded hand signals then positioned themselves, stooped. Skip jerked it open and Chub rapidly scanned it, pistol held out in both hands.

They saw only a short foyer and two more closed doors. Pointing to each door in turn, Skip mouthed closet, head.

The Sheriff carefully, quietly opened each - - nothing.

They shrugged. Skip leaned into Chub and spoke softly.

Footprints look normal to me. You see any odd ones?

Chub looked around, shook his head negatively.

OK. We should check the hold.

They crept back on deck and crouched on either side of a hinged 3’ by 3’ wooden lid. It was small but big enough to conceal a sneaky rascal awaiting a chance to waylay.

They each put one hand on the handle, watched one another successively and in unison raise one, two, three fingers, and yanked it open. Life vests, assorted gear - - nothing else.

Finally, they peeked into two secured tubs in the center of the deck, finding a few crabs in one, nothing in the other. A few other nooks also proved innocent.

We’ll leave the rest, the heavy work, to my detective.

Skip nodded. Then he scanned the shore and the water on both sides of CoriAnn and thought out loud.

High tide peaks under a foot at 7:15. I can secure her with lines from the forward and aft cleats to trees. I’ll get lines off the Larson so we can leave these alone. Will that taint the scene?

After reflecting, Chub shook his head.

Do it. It shouldn’t hurt anything. Need any help?

Nodding positively, Skip hopped to the Larson, got two lines, and re-boarded CoriAnn.

I’ll go into the water then have you toss me the lines, one at a time, and then ease the anchor to me.

Sounds like something I can handle.

He watched as Skip tied one line to each of the cleats then eased over the port gunwale and waded to the aft side. Pointing at the rear cleat, he queried, Can you toss me that line?

The Sheriff did so.

Line in hand, Skip trudged to shore and wrapped it around a medium sized tree while calling may not hold in a storm but should take care of normal gusts.

They repeated that routine to get the forward line tied off. Then Chub gently swung the anchor toward Skip, who manually secured it at water’s edge. Next, he climbed aboard CoriAnn and followed Chub to the port side where they slipped into the Larson.

Firing up the small boat, Skip nodded toward the larger one and announced his intention.

I can’t circle her but I’ll ease around the bow so you can see the starboard side.

Chub was impressed by the lad’s ideas and actions, and appreciative - - he thought. Skip had not stayed away as directed to, but he’d been a terrific help.

He tried to focus on potential clues while they partially circled CoriAnn, finding the route impassable as Skip had forecast. The boy’s calm demeanor, his assertive guidance, nagged at him.

You were home all morning? Till you heard Butch?

Skip bobbed his head once in the affirmative. Yes sir.

With narrowed eyes, he stared at the young man and slowly said, Did you have anything to do with this, or any prior knowledge of it?

No sir.

After a moment of cold silence, Chub nodded.

Eyes glued on where they’d left Butch and Mike, Skip opened up the Larson. Soon he was gently beaching it some 10-12 feet from the body.

The second deputy was there, and Ed was returning. Chub, feeling every one of his forty-five years, inched his pudgy body out of the Larson and waded to Butch and Mike while motioning Ed and the newly arrived deputy to their duty station.

I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help this morning, fellas. And I… his phone rang, the ID flashing the detective’s name. He held up a ‘give me a minute’ finger to the two men, and pressed Answer.

Hey, Wally, where are you?

By yours and Ed’s cars, but I don’t see anyone.

We’re fifty feet downstream, where the woods hit the water. You can get wet, fight briars, or I’ll send Skip for you.

That’s a no brainer.

The detective hung up and fetched his boots, white wide-brimmed hat to protect his balding crown, and his case out of the trunk. With his bushy white eyebrows and mustache, chubby cheeks, spectacles and beige summer suit he resembled a nineteenth century planter preparing to inspect his rice paddies.

The Sheriff got back to the two good Samaritans.

That was Wally. He’ll want to talk to you a bit, if you’ve got another few minutes. Then I’ll get Skip to ferry you to your boat. You got a catch in there going bad?

Not yet, we were heading out to our pound nets.

Returning with Wally, Skip brought him in close, jumped out of the runabout, and carefully helped the sixty-eight year old detective into the shallows. Then Skip grabbed his case.

All I want right now is my camera. Leave my print kit where it won’t get wet.

Skip passed him the camera and he hung the cord around his neck.

Chub came up to brief his detective. Drawing closer to them, Skip confided in a soft voice.

There’s a rock in the water near the body. I didn’t touch it, didn’t contaminate evidence, but I’m pretty sure it has blood on it.

Wally and Chub, both agog, turned to face the victim.

Then all three splashed over to the body.

Where?

Skip showed them. They bent over it and after a minute or so of study Chub gently lifted it out of the water.

You have any bags this big?

In my case.

Hearing that, Skip retrieved his satchel from the motor boat, brought it over, and Wally bagged the stone.

I’ll dust it later. Let’s hope any prints that were there still are, he snorted in his gravelly voice, frowning at Skip.

Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Ferry duty, mayhem.

The college student looked shamed. Chub shook his head and guided him aside while Wally took pictures.

"Don’t worry about it. I couldn’t have done anything with it till Wally got here. You’ve been a big help. You’ve had a God awful terrible morning, and I hate to ask more, but can you take Wally to CoriAnn when he’s ready? If not I’ll send a deputy to…"

I’m not resting till we’ve got this SOB behind bars.

Chub wasn’t sure how to take that. The lad’s tone was so stern, his gaze unwavering. Could he become a teenage vigilante? But he was a good kid, and smart as a whip. Surely he could be guided constructively.

Who’s been tramping through this mud?

It was the detective, his raspy voice at a high decibel.

My fault, Chub stated. Judy, Butch, Mike.

Wally glared at him a moment then shrugged and reached for his tape.

You youngster cops could make it a little easier on an old dick like me.

Things unfolded more gracefully the remainder of the morning. Wally talked to Butch and Mike first then Skip took them to their boat. The detective snapped more pictures and took a few prints at the water’s edge and on CoriAnn.

And he got footprints! Not great ones, but it looked like tennis shoes and flat soles were amid the impressions of Judy, Mike and Butch. He couldn’t match them on the boat, though.

Next, he met the Medical Examiner at the victim’s body. The ME was a trusted local doctor who had filled in before. He did his inspection. After that, two techs who were with him loaded the body into their ambulance and took it for autopsy.

Finally, while Skip waited outside, Wally, Ed and Chub huddled in the detective’s car to debrief and set a short-range strategy. Then Wally took off, leaving Chub, Ed and Skip standing in their make shift parking lot catching their breath.

The three looked at one another for a long moment then their gazes faded to the creek, woods, sky, or whatever. The tranquility of singing birds, soaring geese, floating clouds, splashing water struggled to erase the tragic aura of the setting.

I appreciate all you guys did for my uncle.

No one moved for a few seconds until Ed scooted delicately to him and gave him a brief hug. Then the slender deputy with straight black hair and a thin mustache stepped back, hands on Skip’s shoulders, and started to speak; but choked up.

He turned to Chub, raised his eyebrows, and waited.

You go on, Ed. I’ll be along later.

As Ed drove off, Chub sidled to where water lapped at a small patch of gritty sand and put his hands in his pockets. His attention was snatched by an eagle gliding above the far bank.

Eagle Eye - - bet he saw it all. Wish he could talk.

The young man glanced over his shoulder to where the Sheriff was looking and studied the magnificent avian. Continuing to look at the eagle, he came up next to Chub.

Someone saw; someone will talk.

Chub glanced up at this strong, resolute, serious man then turned his head to resume staring across the water.

Just got home from your first year at Tech, right?

Two days ago, May 14.

I hear you’re looking into Criminal Justice.

I’m looking to chase down some criminal’s justice real hard, right now.

Chub grunted.

You were like an experienced cop today. Is that from crime shows? In my day our first year at school was basic required stuff. We didn’t touch, or even declare, our major as freshmen.

"Testing out, online courses, I started with required classes done and some in Criminal Justice. I’m basically 3rd